


all my love (is yours)

by kindahannah



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Jon and Sansa Are Not Related, Love Confessions, Pining, and a matchmaker, and jon and sansa are in love, arya stark is a gift, idk what this is honestly, jon is painfully in love with sansa, mostly just fluff but there's a little mildly explicit content towards the end, sansa loves him too though so it's okay, stark siblings & co go on a spring vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-11-26 19:52:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18185000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kindahannah/pseuds/kindahannah
Summary: “Because you love her!”Jon’s face immediately goes a few degrees warmer at the accusation. She’s right, of course. Jon has been painfully in love with Sansa for the better part of his life, if he’s being honest. He can’t say that, though, because Sansa has a boyfriend, and she’s his best friend, and it’s downright embarrassing. “I don’t!” He finally manages to get out, sounding much more strangled than he’ll ever care to admit.“Seven hells, you’re the most useless person on the face of the planet! Completely insufferable! You’re blushing like a fucking maiden, Jon, and you’re trying to tell me you’re not in love with my sister?”(Jonsa Spring Blossoms, Day 6: Leisure / Mountains / Water)





	all my love (is yours)

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time I've written anything for Jonsa, or for Game of Thrones at all, so please go easy on me. I just have so much love for Jon and Sansa in my heart, and thus, this was born! It's a little all over the place because I ended up writing it in a few short bursts of inspiration, but I actually kind of love it? 
> 
> Also, I had planned on writing a Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor AU for Day One (Flowers / Gifts / Colors) but I ended up getting incredibly invested and carried away with it and didn't finish it in time. BUT I fully intend to post it once it's finished, so keep an eye out for that!
> 
> Anyway! Happy first day of spring, and happy reading!

Jon Snow isn’t quite sure how he feels as stands, peering out the window of the cabin he and the rest of Stark Siblings & Company are going to call home for the week. 

This isn’t the first time he’s been to the cabin, not by a long-shot. When they were children, Ned used to take the family out to Long Lake every other weekend of the summer, and, as Robb’s best friend, he got to join in on quite a few of them. 

The entire place feels almost sacred now, though. The beginning-of-spring trip is, apparently, a generations old Stark Siblings tradition, and Jon feels significantly more out of place than he ever did tagging along as Ned Stark taught them all how to fish—especially because this is the first spring that any of them had ever seen.

He almost didn’t come, but Robb told him he was being  _ ‘Completely ridiculous, Jon’  _ and  _ ‘If Theon is coming, then you’re coming.’  _ Which, like. Okay. Jon can’t argue with that logic. 

And it  _ is  _ peaceful—more peaceful than anything in his life has been in a  _ long  _ time—so he isn’t going to complain.

“Seven hells, Margaery! How many bags did you bring?” Theon’s whinging breaks the serene silence, and Jon turns to see him dragging one of Margaery’s  _ many  _ bags in a truly dramatic fashion that only Theon can achieve. Robb follows him in, ever the dutiful boyfriend who doesn’t complain about how many bags his girlfriend needs for a week-long trip. 

“It isn’t  _ my fault  _ that it’s  _ freezing  _ up here.” Margaery responds, shooting him a glare that isn’t even remotely threatening.

“How very southron.” Arya snorts under her breath, but Jon is the only one who catches it. He shares her sentiments, and a hint of a smile that takes over his expression when they share a glance. 

It’s nothing against Margaery, really. She’s a great girl—clever, and witty, and everything that Jon could have ever hoped for in his best friend’s girlfriend—but Southern to her core. The winter they’d just gone through, albeit remarkably short for how long the summer had been, had been  _ brutal,  _ so this weather is  _ glorious  _ to them. Still, he can understand why Margaery, who had never even  _ seen  _ snow before she began dating Robb, would be cold.

“Easy on her.” Gendry mutters as he slings an arm around his girlfriend’s shoulders, apparently having heard her comment as well. “I used to be the same way.”

“And I made fun of you just as much.” Arya huffs, though Jon knows that her annoyance towards him isn’t genuine. She visibly softens whenever Gendry is around—which still surprises him just as much as how well she and Gendry work together. 

As much as Jon considers Gendry to be one of his closest friends now, but when  _ Human Tornado Arya  _ brought home one of the most polite and gentle people Jon had ever met, everyone had been a little uncertain that he was right for her.

Everyone but Sansa. 

“They balance each other out. He’s good for her.” She had told him, a small, knowing smile on her face. “After everything with Joffrey, my dad told me that one day I would find someone worthy of me. Someone brave, and gentle, and strong. Gendry is worthy of her.” 

_ Brave, and gentle, and strong,  _ Sansa had said. 

_ I could be all those things for you. I could be anything for you,  _ Jon had wanted to say—but he hadn’t. He let her slip away from him,  _ again,  _ and before long she was dating someone new and his opportunity had passed, again.

“You’ve got that look on your face.” Arya’s voice interrupts his train of thought and draws him back to reality, Sansa’s absence at the cabin only that much more noticeable.

He isn’t quite sure he wants to know what she’s talking about, but he asks anyway. “What look?”

“The one you get when you’re thinking about my sister.”

Whatever Jon  _ thought  _ was going to come out of Arya Stark’s mouth, it was nowhere even  _ close  _ to that. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why would I be thinking about Sansa?” 

“Because you love her.”

Jon’s face immediately goes a few degrees warmer at the accusation. She’s right, of course. Jon has been  _ painfully  _ in love with Sansa for the better part of his life, if he’s being honest. He can’t  _ say that,  _ though, because Sansa has a boyfriend, and she’s his best friend, and it’s downright embarrassing. “I don’t!” He finally manages to get out, sounding much more strangled than he’ll ever care to admit. 

“Seven hells, you’re the most  _ useless  _ person on the face of the planet! Completely insufferable! You’re blushing like a fucking  _ maiden,  _ Jon, and you’re trying to tell me you’re not in love with my sister?”

His cheeks only grow  _ more  _ warm at that, but Gendry is merciful enough to save him from  _ actually  _ being embarrassed to death by tugging her away, saying something about breaking their bed in—which, like,  _ gross,  _ but at least it gives him an opportunity to slip out the back door.

Not that it helps much. Nearly every memory he has of Long Lake has Sansa written all over it—her screams of laughter when Robb would throw her off the dock, the way the bonfires would illuminate her face as she smiled over at him, the week they all spent here before she went away to college when they laid out on the sand for hours looking at the stars before he finally reached to lace their fingers together and she didn’t pull away. 

It was the same night Jon told her how he felt about her, told her that he wanted to be with her. Sansa had told him, through tears, that she didn’t think it was fair to either of them to start a relationship knowing that she’d be going off to King’s Landing for school in a few shorts months. Despite how little the distance meant to him, he didn’t push her on the matter. He didn’t want to be the person holding her back, not ever.

And now, five years later, Long Lake does nothing but remind him of what he lost.

* * *

 

Jon has always been an introvert, by nature. A lone wolf, as the Stark Siblings & Company would say. As much as he loves his friends and has grown to enjoy in the chaos that spending time with them entails, he still needs his own time and space. 

Being an early riser in a cabin full of people who love to sleep in gives him just that, he learns on the first morning. He finds solace in a silent, still morning with his coffee and eggs, reveling in the tranquility that is getting to  _ breathe  _ for a moment. 

He’s caught off-guard when he’s pulled from his solitude by the sound of the front door opening. Except—everyone is here. He watched everyone retire to their rooms last night after their fire died down. The only person who might have left would be Theon, on some kind of late-night sex-capade, but he knows for a  _ fact  _ that he’s still here. Jon could hear the sound of his snores through the walls when he woke up.

So, who’s here?

His fight-or-flight instinct kicks into overdrive, and he grabs the first thing off the kitchen counter within his grasp to use as a weapon before turning the corner, and—

Sansa.

Sansa is standing there, a suitcase in hand, giving him a smile that makes his knees weak. He knows that he should say something, instead of just standing and gaping at her, but the only thing going through his brain is a mantra of her name, so. “I thought you were an intruder.” He finally manages to say, you know, like an  _ idiot.  _

Sansa lets out a peal of laughter—and if Jon thought his knees were weak before,  _ seven hells.  _ He knows that it’s only been a few months since he’d last seen her, but, somehow, it feels like it’s been  _ years.  _ Months or years, it’s apparently been long enough for him to forget how to behave like a  _ normal human being  _ around her. “I hate to break it to you, but unless the intruder was a stack of pancakes, you’d be terribly out of luck.” 

Jon looks at his makeshift weapon for the first time and his cheeks feel hot when he sees that he’s been wielding a spatula in front of himself. Which is very great and not at all embarrassing. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that. You’d be surprised what I can do with one of these bad boys.”

Sansa laughs again, and Jon feels a swell of pride. It hadn’t been a particularly clever thing to say, but if Sansa found it amusing then, well, that’s all that really matters to him. “I hope your spatula related skill set includes making breakfast. I’m starving.”

“I’m sure I can manage to whip something up.” Jon replies, shooting her a smile before returning to the kitchen to put his weapon back to its intended use. 

They fall into a comfortable silence as they make breakfast, and it’s  _ easy.  _ Everything is easy with Sansa—almost  _ too  _ easy. It’s too easy to imagine them falling into a routine of waking up early together, watching the sunrise over coffee. It’s too easy to imagine them in a kitchen of their own, making pancakes for breakfast every day. It’s too easy to imagine himself wrapping an arm around her waist, pressing his chest to her back and his lips to the top of her head. 

It’s  _ too easy,  _ and, for some reason, Jon allows himself to entertain his reverie. It isn’t until he’s leaning in, brushing away a streak of flour on her cheek with the pad of his thumb, that he remembers that they  _ aren’t  _ living in his fantasy world. 

Sansa is watching him expectantly, her cheeks an unfairly pretty shade of pink that makes Jon feel even more flustered. “You, uh… Had something on your cheek.” Jon clears his throat, showing her the white smudge on his finger in attempt to explain his uncalled for actions.

Sansa’s eyes flash with something unreadable, but it’s gone just as quickly as it came. The silence that they fall into this time is far less comfortable, but, thankfully, he isn’t forced to suffer through it for long. It’s broken by Arya barreling into the kitchen with a shout of, “Sansy-pants!” 

“Arya Underfoot!” Sansa replies with a grin, and it isn’t until she’s stepped away from him to throw an arm over her sister and tousle her hair that Jon even realizes how  _ close  _ they were standing. 

The look that Robb gives him when Jon catches his gaze lets him know that their proximity was, clearly, noticed. Jon gives his head a small shake in denial of Robb’s unspoken allegation, but he doesn’t look convinced. He chooses to turn his attention to Sansa, anyway, and Jon is grateful. “You’re here? I thought your boss was being insufferable about taking time off.”

“More like her boyfriend was being a prick about her spending a week with Jon.” 

Theon’s mention of Sansa’s boyfriend makes Jon’s jaw clench. Harry Hardyng is  _ perfect,  _ by all accounts. Tall, strong, and handsome, Harry is practically the hero Sansa used to sing songs about—the kind of hero that Jon always  _ pretended  _ to be when they were children and would run around the Stark’s yard, when he and Robb were knights on a mission to save Princess Sansa, who was stolen away by Arya the Dragon.

Except he isn’t a hero. He isn’t Sansa’s knight in shining armor. He isn’t Sansa’s boyfriend, as much as he wants to be, and the suggestion that  _ Harry  _ is jealous of  _ Jon  _ is more than enough to make his traitorous heart do a backflip. 

“Theon.” Jon says, voice low. It was supposed to be a warning for Theon’s ears, only, but his previously voiced accusation has brought a still silence over the group of them.

“What?” Theon feigns innocence, lifting his chin slightly as he takes a bite of one of the pancakes that were laying, forgotten, on the kitchen counter. “Sans, I love you. You’re like the sister I never had, but—”

“You  _ do _ have a sister, Theon.” 

“ _ But,  _ your boyfriend is a territorial dickhead.” 

Sansa mumbles something that Jon can’t quite hear, but whatever Arya—who is still caught under Sansa’s arm—hears is enough to make her eyes light up. “Can you please repeat that, Sansy-pants? I don’t think everyone heard.” 

“I said,  _ ex-boyfriend. _ ”

Arya whoops, pumping a fist in the air so vigorously and suddenly that Sansa is thrown backwards. Jon doesn’t think before reaching forwards, keeping her from stumbling into the edge of the counter with a hand on the small of her back. Theon quirks a smug eyebrow at him, and Jon shoots him an icy glare before yanking his hand back. 

Thankfully, Robb is too busy admonishing Arya to notice the gesture. “Arya! I know you didn’t like him but we have to be—”

“Robb, she’s fine.” Sansa says firmly, saving Arya from a speech that was already shaping up to rival one from Catelyn Stark, herself. “I know it’s hard to believe, because it doesn’t happen much, but Theon is right. He’s a dickhead.” 

Theon makes an indignant noise at that, but Jon can barely hear it. His mind is too busy screaming at him that  _ Sansa Stark, Love of His Life,  _ is single. It’s a voice he quickly fights to quiet down, of course, because he’s a decent fucking person who will  _ not  _ make a move on one of his best friends after she’s  _ just  _ come out of a relationship. Even if she  _ is  _ the love of his life. 

Margaery hums, breezing past them all to pile  a few pancakes onto her own plate. “There are plenty of fish in the sea, sweetheart.”

Everyone else begins to follow suit, the entire ordeal momentarily forgotten in favor of enjoying breakfast, and Jon takes the opportunity to look at Sansa without Theon’s beady gaze on him. To his own surprise, she’s looking back at him, a hint of a smile on her features as she repeats, “Plenty.”

* * *

 

“So, are you going to tell her or do I have to do it for you?” Arya appears out of literally nowhere, nearly sending him into cardiac arrest. 

“Has anyone ever told you that you would make quite the assassin?” Jon grumbles, and he doesn’t mean it as a compliment but Arya’s eyes visibly brighten.

“Yes, but you and I both know I’d prefer espionage.” She replies, and Jon gives a thoughtful nod. She wouldn’t be a half-bad secret agent. “Now, answer the question and nobody gets hurt.”

Jon scrunches his eyebrows, putting up a valiant effort at pretending he has no idea what she’s talking about. “No, I wasn’t planning on telling Catelyn about all the sins you and Gendry have committed in her  _ lovely  _ home, but if you want me to then—”

If looks could kill, then Arya’s glare would have killed Jon on the  _ spot.  _ “Drop the stupid act!” Arya snaps, jabbing a finger into his shoulder so hard that he actually winces. “Are you going to tell Sansa that you want to get down and dir—”

Jon’s eyes widen and he claps a hand over her mouth to silence her, nervously flicking his gaze around to make sure that nobody was around to hear. Thank the Seven, the only one who offers an amused glance in their direction is Gendry, who Jon assumes has been heard all about this from Arya.

Arya takes advantage of Jon’s diverted attention to sink her teeth into his palm, making him yank his hand back quickly. “Did you just  _ bite  _ me?” 

“Jon, I’m serious!” Arya narrows her eyes, giving him the no-nonsense glare that she certainly  inherited from her mother. “I don’t  _ want  _ to get involved—”

“Yes, you do.” 

“Okay. I wouldn’t completely  _ hate  _ to get involved, but I’ll do it for the common good.” 

Jon has the physically resist the urge to let his eyes roll into the back of his head at that comment—and, really, the only reason he doesn’t is because he genuinely  _ is  _ afraid that Arya would  _ fucking throttle  _ him if he did. “What  _ common good  _ are you talking about?” 

“Everyone’s! Everyone benefits, Jon! What part of this don’t you understand?” She throws her hands up into the air in pure exasperation. “If  _ Sansa  _ finally gets her  _ shit together  _ and stops dating fucking  _ ponces  _ then she won’t get her heart broken.  _ Robb  _ won’t have to debate the best way to kidnap and ship anyone to the Free Cities for hurting her anymore.  _ You  _ get to  _ date her!  _ And  _ I  _ finally get to stop watching you  _ pine  _ over each other like your  _ gods-damned teenagers!”  _

Jon can’t speak. He can’t even  _ think  _ about speaking because between Arya telling him that Sansa is  _ pining  _ over him, and Sansa being  _ single,  _ and Theon saying that Harry Hardyng was-slash-is jealous of him, and Robb giving him his token Protective Older Brother glare when he saw the two of them together, this day is  _ too much.  _ It’s too much for Jon’s poor, lovesick heart. His organs  _ literally  _ feel as though they’re fucking  _ rearranging  _ themselves inside his body. 

“You mean—You think Sansa is  _ pining  _ after  _ me? _ ” Jon finally manages to choke out. He sounds kind of like he’s dying, but he  _ feels  _ like of like he’s dying, too, so. 

Arya still looks exasperated, but there’s also a touch of what looks almost like pity on her face that softens her expression. “Jon, you can’t be—You really didn’t know?”

Jon only gapes at her, shaking his head in either of confirmation to her question, or maybe just to showcase his pure  _ disbelief.  _

“Just—Just talk to her, at the very least, because the both of you are really starting to stress me out and I’m too young to have grey hairs.” Arya says, rubbing her hands over her face and Jon has the decency to at least feel a  _ little  _ bad about the migraine he’s likely induced in the poor girl.

“Okay, okay. I’ll try.”

* * *

 

Jon doesn’t get a chance to talk to Sansa alone until later that night—which is fair because everyone else has gone just as long without seeing Sansa as he has, he has to remind himself—and, even then, it’s only because Arya makes the announcement that she and Gendry are going to bed, and strongly suggests everyone else does, too.

The smug grin that’s been plastered on Theon’s face  _ all day _ only grows as he salutes and heads up to his room. Margaery looks just as clued in to what’s happening as Theon as she loops an arm through a blissfully oblivious Robb’s and drags him away.

And then it’s just he and Sansa down on the beach, the fire nearly gone, but still burning just enough to keep them warm. He half-expects her to bid him goodnight, as well, but he’s pleasantly surprised by the way she stays put.

“How are you doing?” He finally asks, earning himself an unimpressed look. “I’m serious, Sans. Breakups suck, I want to make sure you’re okay.”

Sansa softens at that, reaching over to lay an assuring hand on his forearm. His skin burns under her touch, but he does everything in his power to keep it from showing. “I was the one that ended things. I’m okay. More than okay.”

“You did?” Jon repeats, trying to keep the blind optimism and hope at bay. Except, Sansa looks mildly offended—which, like. That wasn’t his intention. “Fuck—No, I just mean… I don’t know. I’m just surprised. I thought he was your dream guy, s’all.” 

“He was.” Sansa says, and whatever hope  _ was  _ brimming in his chest is quickly extinguished.

“Right.” Jon clears his throat, dropping his gaze quickly as he tries to plan the quickest and least painful plan of escape he can.

Only, before he can, Sansa’s hand tightens around his wrist and his gaze snaps back up to him. “He was, at first.”

Jon nods slowly, trying to piece together what she means without letting himself get carried away. “What happened?”

“I think you know.” Sansa replies, voice slow, like she’s waiting for him to figure something out. Except, he has no idea what he’s supposed to be realizing. “Why did you end things with Ygritte? And Val?”

“Because they weren’t—” He begins and—oh.  _ Oh.  _

Sansa moves closer to him, sliding her hand down his arm to weave their fingers together, and Jon thinks he’s dreaming. No, he’s almost completely positive that he’s dreaming. 

“I ended things with Harry because he wasn’t you, Jon.” She admits, watching him carefully, as though she isn’t sure how he’ll react. 

And, okay. That’s fair. Jon doesn’t even know how he’ll react quite yet. There’s about a thousand thoughts running through his brain at the moment, and almost every single one of them is drowned out by the gut instinct to  _ kiss Sansa right now, you bleeding idiot.  _

He lifts his free hand, carefully splaying it over Sansa’s cheek, and allows himself a moment to revel in the way that she leans into his palm immediately. She looks at him beneath her lashes and,  _ Seven save him.  _ “You remember what I told you that night we laid out here, sweetheart?”

He isn’t sure what emboldened him, besides the simple fact that  _ Sansa wants him,  _ but he’s appreciative enough of it when Sansa’s eyes flutter and she nods. He drags his thumb slowly against her cheek, waiting for her to look back up at him before continuing. “I meant it. I meant it then, and I still mean it now. I love you, Sansa, and there’s nothing I want more than to be with you, but…”

“But?” Sansa’s forehead suddenly creases, a frown appearing on her lips, and Jon  _ knows.  _ Anything that comes after the word  _ but  _ is horseshit. Her father always said it.

“But I’m not—I could never forgive myself for being the person holding you back from something. King’s Landing, it isn’t for me, as much as I’d follow you anywhere, I—”

“King’s Landing?” Sansa shakes her head quickly, reaching a hand to grasp a fistful of his shirt, as though she’s afraid he’ll leave. He’s not. He won’t. He leans forward and presses a kiss to her forehead in an attempt at comfort—A successful one, judging by the way Sansa relaxes towards him. “Jon, I hate King’s Landing, it’s  _ terrible.  _ I… I’m coming back to Winterfell. I’m coming home.”

_ Home.  _ She’s coming home—home to the North and home to him. It’s like everything in the universe slowly rights itself again with her words, everything shifts back into place and Jon can  _ breathe  _ again. “You know, I was thinking about moving out.”

Sansa lifts an eyebrow. “Yeah? Where will you go?”

“Where will  _ we  _ go?” Jon corrects, giving her hand a gentle squeeze and pulling it forwards his mouth, pressing his lips against her knuckles. 

“I love you.” Sansa  _ beams  _ at him and, Gods, Jon’s a fucking  _ goner. _

But, really, who can blame him when the actual  _ love of his life  _ has just confessed that she loves him and wants to move in with him?

Nobody, that’s who, Jon decides as he slips his hand from her cheek to the back of her neck, drawing her in towards him. 

As much as he wants to kiss the living daylights out of her right now, at this very moment, he forces himself to have a little self control. As it’s shaping up, it seems like they’ll have plenty of time for that. Right now, he’s intent on savoring every moment of kissing Sansa Stark for the very first time.

Sansa is a little less pleased with how he’s drawing everything out, an impatient noise sounding in the back of her throat as he just  _ barely  _ brushes his lips over hers. And,  _ well.  _ If that’s what she wants, Jon could never—would never—say no to her.

In one, fluid motion, he releases Sansa’s hand in favor of wrapping a strong arm around her waist and pushing her down into the blanket they have laid over the sand. Every, agonizing second he’s spent pining for her is completely worth it, just based off the way she sighs, high and pretty, when his lips begin to map their way across her throat. Her sighs turn into breathy moans when his resolve finally crumbles and he sucks a mark into a spot under her ear that makes her hips shift beneath him. 

“Jon.” Sansa winds her fingers into his hair, tugging as he soothes over the skin with his tongue. “Jon, kiss me, please.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice, surging upwards to catch her lips in his own. He kisses her slow and deep and purposeful, until he’s dizzy with it. The glassy look in Sansa’s eyes is enough to let him know that it’s mutual and— _ Seven hells,  _ way she’s  _ looking  _ at him. It makes something stir in Jon’s stomach, something hungry.

To his own credit, Sansa seems to feel the same way, her hands are roaming over his chest in an almost greedy fashion and her hips are pushing up into his, subtly. Not that he minds, of course. Everything he is, is her’s for the taking, and he doesn’t want to be subtle about that. He wants her to  _ know.  _

One of his hands reaches for her waist, digging his fingers into her skin only gently enough to keep from really hurting her, as he rolls his hips down against hers, intentionally slow. Sansa keens, her own hips bucking up in a short, frantic sort of motion, and Jon is powerless to the way the hunger in his stomach only intensifies. 

“You feel that, Sansa? You feel what you do to me?” Jon all but  _ growls  _ against her neck, spurred on further by the ragged gasp he elicits from her. “Fucking hells, you don’t know how long I’ve wanted this for—wanted you for.”

Sansa’s back arches the moment reveals that he wants her, as if it’s some great turn-on to be wanted by someone, and the desire to break the noses of every man who’s ever made Sansa Stark feel like anything less than a  _ fucking treasure  _ is only drowned out by the desire of a completely different sort that he gets when her nails dig into his shoulders. “Jon.  _ Jon,  _ please, I—I want—” 

The desperation in her voice sounds almost painful, and when Jon lifts his face to seek out her’s and sees tears of frustration starting to well in her eyes his  _ Take Care of Sansa  _ instinct fires up in full-force. “Shh. I’ve got you, sweet girl.” He assures her, and though the way Sansa shivers  _ isn’t  _ from the cold, it still makes him use his better judgement. It certainly isn’t summer, and the fire has died down now, and body-heat can only keep them so warm. Besides, there’s a perfectly good bed waiting for them inside—two, actually. “Come to bed with me. Let me take care of you.”

Sansa nods quickly, grasping at his shoulders and Jon wastes no time in scooping her up and carrying her into the house as quickly as humanly possible. 

He’s equally as proud of the breathless giggle Sansa gives into his neck at the gesture, as he is of the fact that he only stops his journey to push her against a wall and kiss her senseless a few times on the journey.

* * *

The next morning, when he wakes up with Sansa’s head on his chest and her hair in his mouth, they decide that they’ll sit everyone down at breakfast and make their announcement. They both figure it’ll be best for everyone—especially for Robb—but, as it turns out, they don’t exactly get that far, because Robb walks in on Sansa perched on the kitchen counter with Jon standing between her legs, kissing her soft and languidly.

Which, like. It’s  _ definitely  _ his own fault, but he really just can’t help himself. And, Sansa looks unfairly good in his t-shirts, so maybe it’s her fault.

“What the fuck?!” He shouts, as if he’s just stumbled across a fucking  _ crime scene,  _ and not an innocent display of affection. His outcry is enough to wake up everyone in the entire fucking cabin, apparently, and soon  _ everyone  _ is there to watch Robb’s brain short-circuit. “You—Sansa—Jon—What the  _ fuck?!”  _

“Oh, don’t act so  _ surprised,  _ Robby.” Arya snorts, her hand smacking against Robb’s back to snap him out it. “Well all knew, full-well, that it was only a matter of time.” 

Theon wolf-whistles when he gets a glimpse of the hickey on the side of Sansa’s neck, exclaiming, “Jon, you dog!” 

Robb looks like he wants to bleach his brain, immediately. Or kill Jon. Or both. “Jon, you’re my best friend, but I’ll kill you.” 

“C’mon, babe. He’s much better than Harry.” Margaery points out, and Jon sticks his chin out a little bit—because is  _ is  _ better than Harry, thank you very much.

“In more ways than one.” Sansa agrees, and Jon very pointedly ignores both the way than Robb claps his hands over his ears  _ and  _ the way Arya gives a fake retch and declares them  _ sickening  _ when he leans in to steal another quick kiss.

And, okay, maybe it isn’t exactly  _ quick,  _ but there’s not a single bone in Jon’s body that cares. He’s finally got the girl he’s been in love with for years, he’ll kiss her as much as he bloody-well wants to.


End file.
